


Invictus

by Hekatee, Pierian



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - America, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Angst, Banter, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Harry is a ball of sunshine and Draco is a ball of angst, Humour, Humour and Angst, M/M, Opposites Attract, POV Draco Malfoy, Racism, Romance, Social Commentary, Tutoring
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-21
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-07-25 20:24:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7546483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hekatee/pseuds/Hekatee, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pierian/pseuds/Pierian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco Malfoy has spent his life only seeing the world through the thin slits of his Ku Klux Klan hood. Once he gets to know Harry Potter, he removes the hood, and he realises the world is a whole lot bigger.</p><p>AU where the Death Eaters are the KKK, and Dumbledore's Army is effectively the Amnesty Team at school.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I started writing this fic when I came home drunk, and eventually it just turned into a minor project. There should be a chapter uploaded every Thursday (Australian time). If not, it is because I am drowning in homework and my own tears.
> 
> I in no way support the actions or the ideology of the KKK. My knowledge of their practices comes from internet research and not personal experience. This fic outlines the prevalence of white supremacist groups in the twenty-first century and the impact on the children of these supremacists, who have grown up knowing no other way of life. Draco is an allegory, if you like, of the struggle teenagers experience in establishing their own identity whilst in the iron grip of their parents and their questionable beliefs. 
> 
> Massive massive thankyou to Maddie for co-writing and editing  
> and being a hero.
> 
> Please leave a comment with your thoughts or questions- I love hearing from fellow writers
> 
> Title taken from William Ernest Henley's poem- all credit goes to his wonderful writing

**_For rarely are sons similar to their fathers: most are worse, and a few are better than their fathers.- Homer_ **

 

_Draco,_

_Your latest school report was abysmal. I was absolutely shocked upon seeing your history grade. Despite the "black power", left-wing nonsense taught in class, poor grades just aren't good enough. I haven't sent you to one of the most prestigious boarding schools in the state for you to send back grades like this. No law school will accept less than an A average. You know this._

_Even if they bombard you with nonsense in history class, just get the damn work done. You can lie your way through it. But don’t let your pride for your race be diminished by any…false teachings of history._

_I have spoken to the Klan leaders about your official induction, and they have sworn to hand you a position as a Wizard if you are able to get into law school. We need lawyers. Make me proud.Keep up the Malfoy legacy at Hogwarts. After all, you are my son, and I was an exceptional student in my time._

_Poor grades don’t just reflect badly on you, but on the Klan as a whole. We aren't a bunch of rednecks and hillbillies anymore. We are educated men and women. We are allowed to be proud of our race just as any other group is._

_You are to burn this letter once you have read it._

_Lucius Malfoy._

 

Only Lucius Malfoy would include actual ellipses in a handwritten letter. And only Lucius Malfoy would plug KKK propaganda into a letter to his son.

Draco looked up from the letter, his grip white-knuckled on the paper, his mind spinning.

It was midnight and Draco was the last member of his house still sitting in the common room. The fire cast flickering shadows over the arm chairs placed throughout the room. Despite the size of the fire, Draco found himself shivering, hugging himself tight.

His father knew he was beginning to have doubts about the KKK. Lucius always had an eye on Draco, somehow. He always knew.

He screwed the letter into a tight ball and threw it into the fireplace. He watched the piece of paper wrinkle and blacken until it was gone and Draco’s eyes were watering. He wiped at his eyes with the back of his hands.

_You are not fucking crying_ , he thought bitterly, _Malfoy’s do not cry._

The Klan. He had a position waiting for him in the Klan. Of course, his father had mentioned it before, several times, but suddenly it was so much more real. This was to be his life. His father had been an Imperial Wizard for twenty years. His happiest memories as a child were standing in between his mother and father, holding their hands, watching the cross-burning out of the slits of his hood.

_This is an honour_. A booming voice at the back of his mind reminded him. _You should be happy, you should be proud._

Draco pushed himself off the ground and walked down the corridor that leads to the seventh year boys dormitories.

He paused at the door. Holding his hand over the knob, he rested his forehead against the door. He had to make his father proud. He had to do what was expected of him. He was just experiencing that teenage angst, that was all. He would do the right thing in the end.

With a final deep breath, he opened the door into his dorms and collapsed onto his bed, drawing the curtains around him tightly shut.

He still had his final year at school, a year to pretend that he could be what ever he wanted to be, a year away from his father.

————

Draco was so lost in thoughts about his father in history class the next day that he didn't notice McGonagall put on the documentary. Next to his desk, Crabbe and Goyle shared high-fives and grinned wildly.

"Watching movies in class?"

"Hell yeah!"

"Hell yeah, indeed." Draco said drolly, kicking his chair back against the wall and putting his feet on the desk.

The projector rolled black and white footage of a black woman called Rosa Parks. Draco scanned the room to see if anyone else was as clueless as he was about who this woman was. But no, his class was full of those Amnesty kids, who were almost falling off their seats in anticipation and watching the screen with puppy dog eyes.

"Mr Malfoy, shoes off the desk!” McGonagall said sharply.

"Of course, ma'am." Draco leant forward and slipped his shoes off and dropped them next to his desk. He flicked the band of his left sock loudly against his ankle, smiling evenly at McGonagall. Several members of the class turned around at the noise, including Potter and his hippy friends. Potter muttered something to Hermione, the black girl with manic hair. Hermione laughed and said, "pathetic."

"Watch it, Granger." He snarled. "I know where you live, you and your filthy parents.”

Nobody could call him pathetic except himself.

“Watch it Malfoy!” Ron, the ginger ninja, piped in. Unnecessarily.

"You can say whatever you want Draco." Hermione purred. "You're more scared of me than I am of you."

On either side of Draco, Crabbe and Goyle crossed and tensed their arms. Ah, his henchmen. The punches they had thrown for him. The nerds they had shoved into lockers and down the toilet. The jokes he would make that would fly right over their heads. Always there when he needed them.

"Scared of you, Granger? Please. You're just a worthless n-"

“Mr Malfoy!" McGonagall yelled. "My office! Now!"

The class fell silent. The only sound was the crackled audio of Rosa Parks. Draco stood up and left the classroom, ignoring the heavy slap to the back he received from Crabbe.

The lecture he would face from McGonagall wasn’t what made acid boil in the pit of Draco’s stomach. It was the bodiless face of Lucius floating around that made Draco feel queasy. Draco had never said that word. He had heard it plenty of times thrown around like an everyday noun. But, for some reason, Draco knew it was wrong. Even as he had been about to say it he knew it was wrong.

But his father would hear about this. He would be receiving another letter. Well, at least it was some form of contact?

Draco sat in a large armchair behind a mahogany desk at McGonagall's command. He cast his eyes to his fingernails, trying his hardest to avoid his professors piercing gaze.

"Malfoy, do you know what year this is?" McGonagall asked once he had been seated in her office. She glared at him through her spectacles, her eyes were cold. He was tempted to glare back but thought better of it.

"2016." He also thought better than to give a smart arse comment.

"I'm glad to see you realise that this is 2016, and not 1956." She folded her thin fingers together in front of him. Silence hung heavy in the air. Draco took the time to admire the minimalist office: the sleek brown desk and chair, the dustless window, the plethora of degrees lining the back wall.

“Mr Malfoy do not think that I am not aware of your…lack of education, in regards to civil rights in this country,” McGonagall said, her eyes softening marginally. Draco scowled, but didn’t answer. His mother had told him to keep his KKK allegiance a secret at school-white pride remained at home.

“However, had I not cut you off, I assure you the path you were going down was grounds for expulsion. I will not have you looking down your nose at anybody at this school, let alone the young lady who is sitting at the top of the cohort and has been for the past 6 years.”

Draco nodded, his blood turning cold. Despite his classroom antics, he'd had a good sense of authority and hierarchy that had been drilled into him at a young age. Voldemort (apparently Tom Riddle isn't a tough enough name for a Klan leader) had made sure of that. He held his tongue, thinking it best to placate his professor.

"But I know you're not as…ignorannt as you appear." McGonagall's face softened. "I still remember what happened October last year."

"Yeah, yeah, we don't need to go there." Draco clenched his jaw.

He may have done something good. But at what cost? He has learnt his lesson.

“Can I…Can you just give me my punishment. Please.” Draco made a point not to look in his professor’s eyes.

She raised her eyebrows. "Since you asked so nicely, I'll give you a punishment in your favour. Are you still top of the class in Chemistry?"

"You bet."

"Well then, you're the most qualified to be the Chemistry peer tutor.” Draco snapped his head up to stare at his professor. Who was now shuffling through a stack of papers on her desk.

"Peer what?” Draco couldn't help but narrow his eyes.

"It's a new program we have. Instead of students seeking tutoring outside of school, we are encouraging shared learning at school. Struggling students are given an extra hand, and the talented students can consolidate their knowledge."

"I'm not letting some imbecile copy my notes for free.” Draco said, folding his arms over his chest.

"That's not how it works, Mr Malfoy. By being part of the program, you'll be earning college credit. That'll help you get into law school, won't it?"

"Sure. Whatever."

"Good. Not that you had a choice. Now, let's look at the list here." McGonagall sorted through some papers on her desk, frowning. She refused to use her laptop for some strange, masochistic reason. If Draco didn't know better, he would have sworn that McGonagall almost smiled as she sifted through the stack of papers.

"Aha!" She handed Draco a sheet of paper with a list of dot points. "You'll be tutoring Harry Potter. Despite all his excellence in other fields, he's failing chemistry.”

Oh. No. No. God. No.

"He has said he's available only on Tuesday's nights for peer tutoring. Every other weekday he's either at the soup kitchen, running Amnesty meetings, or training for his house team.” Draco didn't even try to stop himself from rolling his eyes.

Please, God, no.

"Oh, no, I'm wrong, he's also said he's available Sunday mornings. But only until twelve, because then he's going to teach English to refugees."

Nononononononono. No.

"He's hoping to get an A on his exams. I'm sure your knowledge will help Mr Potter out. Draco? Are you alright? You’re gripping the chair very hard.”

"Oh." He looked down at his white-knuckled hands that clung to the armrests for dear life. "Sorry."

"Don't apologise to me, Mr Malfoy. You should go and apologise to Granger." McGonagall stood up and opened the door for him. "On Tuesday, you'll be in the library with Mr Potter. 4pm sharp.”

It was all because of one word that he ended up in this situation, that one word and Potter. But now there was another word he was thinking: Fuck.  

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for errors of any sort, this is still a work in progress of sorts

“Why are you moping?" Pansy asked Draco.

"I'm not."

"You look far too unhappy for someone drinking a caramel milkshake." She said as she sipped on her own strawberry milkshake.

The two were sat in their favourite red booth at Hogsmeade: a fifties style diner a block down from their boarding school. It was actually called Peggy Mede's, but Peggy had a unique face and kids were cruel with their nicknames.

It was Monday. 4pm. Twenty-four hours to go.

"I've lost my freedom, Pansy." Draco whined as he twirled the straw around the froth. "I'm being abused by the education system. They’re exploiting my talent!"

"Stop whining," Pansy said as she popped a curly fry in her mouth. "You're getting to spend two days a week with Potter. I'd kill for that." 

"Please." Draco scoffed. "You wouldn't have sex with him. He'd start talking about the melting ice caps halfway through.”

“Oh darling, The golden boy must get sick if being so good all the time” Pansy smirked, leaning forward in her seat. 

“If you ask me-“

“I didn’t.” Pansy smirked at Draco, who was now glaring at his useless friend.

“-I think if you got him going, I mean really going he would have something going on.” She leant back, apparently satisfied with her conclusion. 

“No. He’s got nothing going on. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him with a girl who isn’t Granger or a disabled elderly refugee.”

“Maybe he doesn’t swing that way?” Pansy added, smirking all too gleefully. 

“I don’t care which way he swings.” Draco grumbled into his caramel milkshake.

Pansy merely sat back in her chair and scoffed. “Sure you don’t.”

“What?” Draco asked, narrowing his eyes.

“Nothing.” Pansy replied sweetly, still smirking at Draco, with an unreadable look on her face. Draco scowled.

“What are you implying?” Draco grabbed Pansy’s milkshake away from her, dragging it towards him and holding it hostage until she gave an answer and stopped grinning like the Cheshire cat.

“Well…” She reached slowly for her drink. “You have spent the past half an hour complaining about Potter. Not to mention the last six years. I’m negative at the best of times, but I haven’t spent that long complaining about one person.”

“He just infuriates me so much.” Draco pushed his hair off his forehead. “He walks around school like he’s immortal, and he speaks in assembly like he’s that Mark Luther King guy and-”

“Martin, hun. Martin Luther King. Junior.” 

“Since when did you become a historian?”

“I’m not. I just enjoy pissing off my parents by dropping in facts about black history at dinnertime.” Pansy replied.

“Were they pissed off?”

“No more than usual.” Pansy broke eye contact and started admiring the Elvis records on the wall behind the counter. Draco had been friends with Pansy long enough to know she wanted to drop the topic. Draco picked at a hangnail, a nervous tic he had picked up over the summer. Energy levels would always drop whenever parents were mentioned.

“Do you remember that rally our parents dragged us to when we were ten?” Draco spoke up. 

“And we had to miss the school excursion to the aquarium?” Pansy smirked but there was no joy in her expression. 

“Yeah. Do you remember what you thought at the time?”

“Oh, I don’t know Draco. I was ten. I probably just wanted to play video games or watch TV.” 

“Yeah. I don’t remember much either.” Draco lied. He stared down at his bitten thumbnail.

He remembered everything. He remembered yelling and fire. He remembered being ten years old and surrounded by who he thought were incredible visionaries. Some small, disgusting part of him envied his younger self for truly believing all that he was taught. How easy it used to be. How simple it was.

“Ignorance is bliss.” He muttered under his breath.

“Babe, don’t talk to yourself. It’s a real turn-off.” Pansy said as she stood up and put on her coat. “Come on, we’re going to miss curfew if you don't hurry up.”

 

————

 

Draco was surrounded by white. No walls, no shadows, just white. An uneasy sensation rippled through him as he began to walk. He felt lost as if this world he was in was drowning him. Suddenly, in the vast empty whiteness, a small black dot caught his eye. Fear struck Draco although he wasn't sure why. He hands began to shake as he ran towards the dot, as he tried to run closer the dot seemed to get further away. 

Draco tried to scream as the feeling of fear began to choke him but only a croak left his lips. He tried to move again but his feet were rooted to the spot. He felt something behind him but he couldn't take his eye’s of the black dot, it began to grow in front of him. Draco felt as though there were fingers running down his back, he was being watched. Always being watched. Draco tried again to scream as the blackness grew larger.

And then he woke up.

He was tempted to text Pansy and ask her to meet him in the common room. But she would never forgive him for waking her without reason, and he wouldn’t admit he had a decent reason. He sat upright in bed. Crabbe, Goyle, Blaise and Theo were all sound asleep. He could wake them. Their stupidity would be a welcome distraction.

The bottle of vodka poking out of his sports bag caught his eye. He rolled out of bed and grabbed the bottle, loving the idea of getting blind drunk under the willow tree. The tree was an iconic spot for students experiment with various vices during their time at school. Draco slipped out the window and climbed down the drainpipe, and made his way to the willow. A trick he learnt purely so he could feel rebellious. He often found himself walking the grounds at night, unable to fall back to sleep. 

His grip tightened on the bottle when he noticed someone was already sitting under the tree. And this someone wasn’t drinking, or smoking, or with their hands up someone else’s shirt. They, no, he, it was a boy, was sitting with his legs folded up to his chest, arms hugging his knees. He was silent, alone, still.

_Holy shit_ , Draco thought as he inched closer, _it’s Potter_. Nobody else wears those glasses. No other boy in the boarding house has that ridiculous head of hair or those stupid glasses.

It was Harry bloody Potter. The boy who preaches about how lucky we all are to go to a school like Hogwarts. Harry Potter, who was charming and eloquent and adored. Harry Potter, who had absolutely nothing to be unhappy about.

And yet here he was, doing exactly what Draco wanted to do. Minus the vodka. Of course, Potter sulks under a tree without breaking the drinking laws. Draco took slow steps back to the boarding house walls, all the time keeping his eyes on Potter. His figure was silvery in the moonlight. Draco felt a foreign ache in the pit of his stomach. His grip slackened on the bottle, and then he poured the liquor onto the flower bed at the base of the drainpipe.

A sharp shiver ran through him, and he realised his teeth were beginning to chatter. The nightmare was flushed out of his system, so he propped his feet into the brickwork and climbed the pipe back up to his room. He listened out for Potter’s footsteps, but eventually fell into a dreamless sleep. 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Draco thinks he's straight. Ha

Tuesday afternoon came after a slow, heavy day. Draco sat at a table in the very back, very dusty corner of the library. God forbid any of the Klan kids see him with Potter. He'd never hear the end of it.

However, the tutoring sessions had given him an excuse not to go to Klan meetings, since he was forbidden to leave school grounds during this time. Not even Lucius' note saying he had "private family reasons" could override this rule. Perhaps McGonagall was doing him a favour.

But then Potter walked over, and Draco was hit with the scent of his cologne and he knew McGonagall wasn't doing him a single favour. Not even close.

"Hey." Potter said as he unceremoniously dumped his books on the desk and slumped into the chair opposite Draco. His books were decorated with Greenpeace stickers. Typical.

"So you're failing Chemistry," Draco said by way of greeting. He ran a hand through his hair impulsively. He suddenly felt conscious of every inch of skin on his body.

"And you're failing History. Nobody's perfect." Potter replied as he opened his textbook. He licked the tip of his finger (Draco definitely didn't notice this) as he flicked the pages. 

"I'm not failing History. I have a C+ average.” Draco said with a sneer.

“Oh." A small, smug smile flittered across Potters' face. Prick.

"I'm not failing anything. Never have, never will.” Draco could feel the tips of his ears turning pink. Why the fuck had he agreed to this again?

Potter looked blankly at him. "You're failing at life.” 

Draco couldn’t help but notice the blush rise in Potter’s cheeks. As weak as the insult was, it hit Draco close to home. 

"Really? That's the best comeback you have, Potter?" He did his best at a light, unbothered tone.

"I don't have the same experience with bullying as you do, Malfoy." Potter replied, his voice clipped. Trying to keep himself together Draco noted. 

"Coz you're just a fucking saint.” Draco hissed back. 

"Can't you see my halo?” Potter smirked even as he said it, and Draco ignored the feeling that sparked in the pit of his stomach. He wanted to wipe that smirk off Potters' face.

"That's called dandruff, Potter."

"At least my hair isn't greasier than a chicken shop.” He replied, leaning forward as he spoke.

"It's not grease. It's gel. The girls love it. Not that you would know anything about that.” Draco smirked as he noticed Potter’s cheeks burn red. Ahhhh, he had hit a sore spot. Interesting.

"Can you boys pipe down?" The librarian hissed, her eyes shooting daggers at them. Draco didn't know her name. He avoided the library at all cost. Grangers kind often took it upon themselves to study here. 

"Sorry Ms Pince!" Potter whispered back, an apologetic smile plastered across his face. Draco rolled his eyes and opened his own chemistry notes book. Normally he didn't put much pride into note-taking, but his Chem notes were aesthetically beautiful and well detailed. They were notes that said; 'I'm top of the class’. 

The different colours used to highlight important concepts and ideas made the effort he had put into his notes clear. His neat and composed script were a teacher's wet dream on any day, but in his chemistry notes there wasn’t a mistake in sight. 

His excellence in Chemistry wasn't just a matter of pride; he enjoyed the subject. He liked the structure and clarity of the science. And he liked explosions. It was the one subject where is mind didn't insist on wandering. He could focus and block all his thoughts out. He felt calm in the class. 

And now Potter was ruining that by rudely jiggling his legs against the table. Draco sighed.

“I don’t want to be here.” Potter said tiredly. 

“And you think I do?” 

“Can’t we just make this as painless as possible?” Potter said as he sat upright. Always the bloody peacemaker. Always thinking the world’s problems could be solved if we all held hands and danced under a rainbow. 

“No.” Draco said. “I’m not doing you any favours. Ever.”

Despite himself, his mind went back to last October. He screwed his eyes shut until the memory evaporated. For someone failing history, he sure lived in the past a lot. 

“Whatever.” Potter spread his papers out across the desk. “You do your homework and I’ll do mine. And next week I’ll request a different peer tutor.”

“Go for it.” Draco sighed again, knowing full well Mcgongall would make sure the boys were stuck together. 

And that’s how Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter ended up sharing a desk and an uncomfortable silence on a Tuesday afternoon; one of many to come. 

 


	4. Chapter 4

A couple of weeks later, Draco found himself watching Potter in chemistry class not with seething resentment. Instead, he felt a sort of dull curiosity. He was sitting in his usual spot in the back row with Pansy and Blaise, the desks were set up in the square formation; Potter and his gang sat to the left of Draco’s desk. Pansy often sat sullenly in class: she only took the class as it was a requirement for the neuroscience course she wanted to do in university. Blaise took chemistry because his friends did and he didn’t have much direction beyond the actions of those around him.

They were taking a pop quiz on gas chromatography when Draco noticed the sound of a pen vigorously scribbling. He looked to his left and saw Potter crossing out a large portion of the short answer questions on his quiz. A deep crease was indented between his eyes and his glasses were slightly askew. Potter ran a hand through his already scuffed hair, revealing the lightening shaped scar on his forehead. As if realising someone was looking, he quickly pushed his hair back down, covering the scar again. He was the personification of stress.

And then it clicked. The boy was struggling. Draco had never considered that this was an option. He just assumed Potter’s poor marks was because he fucked around in class, setting scraps of paper alight on the bunsen burner or teasing Granger by holding a beaker full of acid solution just a bit too close to her wild head of hair. 

But now as he watched Potter re write his answers only to scribble them out with a frustrated sigh he realised, Potter was actually bad at something. And of all things, it was chemistry, Draco’s best subject. 

Draco snuck a look to his right at his friends. Pansy was drawing flowers across the boarder of her test and Blaise was subtly playing Tetris on his phone under the desk. Draco, inconspicuously, shifted his paper to the left end of his desk, towards Potter. If Potter had one brain cell left that wasn't dedicated to contorting his face into an expression of absolute bewilderment, he would look up and copy Draco’s answers. But Potter didn’t look up, he just chewed on the end of his pen and looked a bit queasy. He sometimes stole glances at Granger’s test, but the only thing she gave him was a look that could kill a small animal. 

“Stop cheating Harry!” She hissed. Draco assumed the yelp Potter made was because Granger kicked him under the table.

“I can’t do it, Hermione.” Potter hissed, his voice quivering slightly. “And I did the homework, I swear. I just can’t do it. I’m too stupid.” Potter cast his eyes back down to the paper. 

Enough with the pity party, Draco thought. He cast one last look at Potter’s paper and stood up, handing in his test to Professor Snape, who was sitting at the front desk, scowling at his gargoyle-like hands. 

Any high school teacher who insisted on being called ‘Professor’ was nuts in Draco’s books, regardless of the prestige of the school. Snape reminded him of Eeyore from the Winnie the Pooh books he’d read as a kid, before his father decided that A. A. Milne might be a communist. But at least Eeyore had one hundred acres of supportive friends. 

“Don’t you reckon Snape is a bit like Eeyore?” Draco whispered to Pansy.

“Eeyore represents depression. The rabbit has OCD, the tiger had ADHD, and Piglet has anxiety. Pooh has an eating disorder. And the boy has schizophrenia. He imagines all the characters, coz he has hallucinations. They represent mental illnesses.” Pansy replied, not bothering to look up from her paper, and continuing to doodle little daisies in the corners.

“Did you stay up watching conspiracy theory documentaries again?” Blaise asked, not looking up from his phone.

Pansy shook her head, but the bags under her eyes suggested otherwise, as if on cue Pansy lifted her hand to cover a yawn.

The bell rang shortly after, and Draco heard a frustrated sigh from Potter’s table. He glanced at Potter’s test, and saw that no question had a coherent answer; only menial scribbles and numbers repetitively crossed out. 

“Malfoy, collect the remainder of the papers.” Snape ordered from his front desk. The bastard had always had a soft spot for him, which Draco assumed had nothing to do with his grades and everything to do with Lucius. The professor has often been present at Malfoy Manor when Draco grew up, he had never taken kindly to the pale man. 

‘Yes Professor.’ Draco replied.

Draco stood up and floated around the desks, approaching Potter’s table last. He smirked at its occupants. He had the chance to humiliate his rival. He should have been relishing in this power, soaking it up like a sponge. On any other day, his ego would be so inflated it'd take up the mass of the chemistry lab. But today he just felt…felt…what? The ache at the pit of his stomach was back, and Draco was all to aware of it as he looked at Potters slumped shoulders. 

Granger handed him her test, head held high, with the look of someone who knew they were going to get full marks. 

Ginny Weasley gave Draco her test without even a glance (she was in the year below but took senior chemistry because she was the only person of intelligence the Weasley bloodline had produced, even Draco could admit that) Potter gave Draco his test last, face down, avoiding eye contact. 

“Quit moping, four eyes.” Draco taunted in some weak attempt to hide his confusing emotions. “Your new chemistry tutor will get you up to scratch.” 

“McGongall won’t let us swap.” Potter said with a sigh, finally meeting Draco’s eyes with a dark look of his own. “She said, more or less, we have to suck it up.” 

“Of course.” Draco huffed, he knew this was coming. He looked down, shuffling the papers into a neat pile. 

“What did I do to deserve this?” He said under his breath. 

“Surely you’re not serious.” Granger snarled, standing up roughly, giving him a look of utter hatred and shoving past him. Ginny stood up and, after glaring at Draco she turned to follow her friend. 

Before she left Draco could have sworn she was looking at Blaise. He was reminded of a few weekends ago when he has seen them talking in the pub, all too intimately. But when he had walked over Ginny has stood up and left. Draco had just assumed he’s been more drunk than he thought…but maybe…

“Well, see you in the library on Sunday.” Potter said glumly, interrupting Draco’s thoughts, as he got up to leave. He pushed his chair in and wished Snape a good day. His manners were insufferable. 

Just as Draco dumped the tests on Snape’s desk and headed to the door, he heard Snape clear his throat. He spun around and raised his eyebrows at his professor.

“Yes?”

“Mr Malfoy, I don’t appreciate cheating in my classroom. I also don't appreciate assisted cheating.” Snape said, narrowing his already narrow eyes.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sir.” Draco replied in a monotone voice before he breezed out of the lab. Though most of what Lucius Malfoy’s has taught his son was questionable, lying through your teeth was a lesson that often served Draco well.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update! I'm in the midst of an existential crisis this week so fic writing is taking my mind off it :)

Draco’s seemingly innocent comment about Winnie the Pooh in chemistry had awakened some sort of beast in Pansy. At around 10pm, Pansy burst in on Draco and Blaise playing chess in the common room.

“Holy shit!” She cried, her eyes boggling out of her small head.

“I’m fine Pansy, thanks for asking.” Draco deadpanned, moving his knight. Blaise exhaled through his teeth and frowned. He moved his bishop, but didn’t look any less stressed. Draco saw right through his act: nobody in their year had beaten Blaise at chess.

The common room was deserted; a rare blessing. Hogwarts, in their recent attempt to end inter-house rivalry and general bitterness, had created a universal common room for the seniors, instead of separate house common rooms. Draco secretly loved the irony of this integration at a school when some students were active KKK members. But at the same time, he hated being in the vicinity of Ravenclaws. And Hufflepuffs. And especially Gryffindors. 

“My eyes have been opened.” Pansy gracelessly plopped down next to the chessboard. Draco and Blaise always played sitting cross-legged on the ancient Persian rug. It was stained with coffee and glue and many other horrors, but it was The Chess Rug.

“If only I cared.” Blaise sighed, taking Draco’s remaining rook. Draco cursed and took a sip of his green tea. He moved his queen two spaces. 

“Guys, I just watched this Michael Moore documentary-” Pansy began, but Blaise cut her off with a triumphant cry of “Checkmate!”

“No it’s not.” Draco examined the chessboard carefully, swatting away Pansy’s wild hands.

“It was about 9/11.” Draco roll his eyes, looking carefully at every possible move.

“Don’t argue, buddy. I know chess better than you.” Blaise uncrossed his legs and lay on his back on The Chess Rug, a clear display of victory. 

“Arg don’t call me buddy” Draco muttered as he scrutinised the board. “No, wait a minute, I can move my knight and-”

“It was an inside job!” Pansy interrupted triumphantly.

“It’s checkmate, mate. I win.” Blaise repeated, his tone careless, a smirk playing on his lips.

“I’m not so sure…Pansy stop hitting me.” Draco said, glaring at his friend.

“The media were cheerleaders for the Iraq War, guys! Don’t you see it?” She grabbed Draco’s collar. Blaise chuckled to himself as he lay on the flaw.

“Pansy, I swear to God, if you say Bush did 9/11…” Draco said, narrowing his eyes.

“She’s right, you know. He did do 9/11.” A voice said. Draco almost leapt out of his skin. Even Blaise in his cool, calm and collected state on the floor jumped a little. The group looked around and spotted Luna Lovegood in the kitchen, twirling a spoon around a cracked china teacup. 

“This common room’s for seniors only.” Draco hissed. Draco thought back to the last KKK meeting he had attended, where Voldemort had hissed his orders, his voice deadly calm. He had ordered a group of twelve-year-old boys , new to the KKK, to egg the house of a black pastor. A gateway order into the more deadly tasks. Draco’s stomach knotted.

“I know.” Luna replied. Her voice had some ethereal quality to it. “You guys just have the strongest spoons.” Draco glared at her, he knew this would be Potters fault. He would have invited her in. Stupid hippie.

“See?” Pansy jumped up and approached Luna. She wrapped an arm around the blonde girl’s shoulder. Luna seemed unfazed, whereas Draco was terrified by this display of energy from Pansy of all people, towards one of Potters gang of all people.

“Loony, tell them.” Pansy gave her new best friend a slap on the back. “Tell them how…how…visionary ‘Fahrenheit 9/11’ is. Tell them!”

“You can’t tell people things anymore.” Luna said, giving Pansy a dazed half-smile. “They think they’re born knowing everything. Ignorance is a voluntary misfortune. They’ll think you’re crazy.”

“Exactly!” Pansy lit up, as if whatever Luna just said made perfect sense. 

Draco and Blaise shared a look that spoke volumes about the inexplicable way girls related to each other. He looked back at the two girls, who were leant into each other like drooping sunflowers, discussing America’s ulterior motives behind the war on terror. Pansy was grinning. Draco didn’t know what to think, because he knew Pansy hated showing her crooked teeth to strangers. 

Draco turned back to the chess board, giving it a once over before accepting defeat. Blaise widened his smirk. 

“Okay, I’m going to bed. Don’t want to be tired for the game tomorrow.” Draco said as he stood up, trying to hide how mad he was that he had lost. Again. 

“Sure.” Blaise replied, smirking because of course he knew Draco was mad. He could read Draco like a book and it terrified him. “Night Draco.” 

“Night Blaise. Night Pansy!” Draco called to his friend who was now sat down with the Love-good girl. Draco rolled his eyes. At least she’s white, he thought bitterly. And trekked up the stair to his dorm room. His mind on the infamous Gryffindor/Slytherin basketball match.

————————

There’s something very intimate about rivalry. Buried beneath all those layers of hatred and contempt, there is respect. Ultimately, you respect your rival, otherwise they wouldn't be worthy of the position. You know your enemy the way you know your loved ones. It’s kind of creepy, really. You know all of their traits, especially the ones that get on your nerve. You know where they will be on any given day. You know that the twitch in their left eye can mean fear, or even worse, triumph. 

Draco was terrified the twitch in Potter’s eye meant pre-emptive triumph when the opposing teams faced each other on the basketball court that night. He and Potter were coincidentally both the point guards of their respective teams. They had both been selected to play for their senior house teams when they were only fifteen. They had both achieved legendary status in Hogwarts basketball. 

They both knew each exactly what the other boy would do. Draco had learnt which of Potter’s moves were fakes and which were real. He’d spent years studying Gryffindor gameplay. Especially Potter’s play. He could read Potters movements and always found himself filled with more adrenaline when he faced the Gryffindor side.

And now, more than ever, he couldn't let Potter win. He couldn't let the kid he was tutoring, for God’s sake, have the upper hand. Draco could already anticipate the snide comments Potter would make in their next session. He just couldn't let him win. 

Marcus Flint and Oliver Wood, the tallest players in the teams, met in the centre circle for the jump ball. Draco could see Flint was already sweating as he met Wood’s eyes with an animalistic glare. But in truth, Flint sweated a lot. He was a sweaty guy. The sound of the crowd was deafening as the players took their place around the centre circle. Potter moved to stand beside Draco. Draco was acutely aware of Potter’s presence beside him as the deafening roar the crowd was making began to fade away. 

The ref blew the whistle, piercing through the sound of the crowd. Wood and Flint’s hands met the ball with an explosive thump. Draco moved, darted, bolted around the court. The ball soared between Flint, Crabbe, Pucey and Goyle. It was always better to pass than dribble. Always quicker. 

But then Potter was there, like a rabbit out of a hat, seizing the ball from Flint mid fast break. He began dribbling, ready to launch a pass to Katie Bell, when Flint body slammed into him. Potter toppled sideways and skidded across the court, right to where Slytherin’s substitute players were seated on the bench. The subs smirked at Potter’s crumpled form. The Gryffindor crowd began to boo as the Slytherins cheered. Potter was curled into a fetal position. Deja vu hit Draco like a train. The memory of October flashed through his mind.

“Faggot.” Flint spat. The ref blew his whistle furiously and Flint was given a technical foul and taken off. Hogwarts tended to bend the rules of basketball in favour of political correctness. Draco heard gasps and low mutterings in the crowd, presumably from Granger, He felt a pang of sympathy for Potter as his team mates helped him to his feet. He pushed those thoughts down however, as the ref collected the ball and blew his whistle. The game was still going. 

And so it goes. The game went on, shots were made, fouls were contested, free throws were missed. Except Draco; he landed his free throws with two consecutive swishes. He felt heroic and graceful and did not think about Flint calling Potter a faggot. In the end, the score was a tie. Nobody won. Both teams yelled at Coach Hooch for an extra five minutes of game play until they were red in the face. But she just shook her head and smiled. 

“If you act like this, nobody wins.” She said. “Nobody.”

Again, Draco didn’t think about this. His blood was bubbling with adrenaline and testosterone. There was a mob of people jumping and yelling in front of Coach Hooch and he was one of them. The basketball court provided an opportunity to think with muscle and sweat. And given that they were all students, who spent all day every day thinking with their brains, they were more than grateful to take the opportunity. 

But Hooch stayed true to her verdict: the Gryffindor vs Slytherin game would be a draw. The players were both disappointed and somewhat relived. The teams went and debriefed in the locker rooms. The Slytherins passed around towels and water bottles and slumped against the locker room wall. For a group of teenagers, the worst thing about a draw was that it gave them no reason to get blind drunk that night; they had neither won or lost. There was no excuse. 

Draco flinched as Flint punched a locker beside his head. 

“Can’t believe we lost to a team of fucking pansies.” Snarled Flint and he shoved his clothes into his gym bag. Draco ignored Flint and pushed past him into the showers. Choosing to ignore the anger he felt at words that would never normally bother him.

Without the promise of a night of drunk antics, Draco got thinking (and this was never good). Potter’s play had been weak the whole game. Though he would never admit this, Gryffindor would have easily won if Potter was more focused following the assault from Flint. But he was switched off. He was everywhere at once. 

It couldn't have been because of Flint’s comment. Potter wasn't the kind of guy who let words get to him. Potter was robust and ethical; he had better things to worry about than the words of a stupid man. Surely. The only reason for that word to have effected Potter so much was…no…no way. 

Draco physically winced at the fact he thought Potter was ‘robust’. That word had…connotations. Connotations of strength and muscle and the swell of his biceps and curve of his calves and the strip of stomach that was visible when he raised his hands to block Draco during the game and— No, nope, Draco definitely had not noticed these things during that game. Draco had definitely, one hundred per cent, not noticed these aspects of Harry Potter.

And even if maybe, maybe, maybe, he did notice, that was not the reason for the draw. Nope. No way.

“Malfoy, pay attention!” Flint barked, snapping Draco out of his thoughts. “I’m giving a speech.”

“How original.” Draco deadpanned, earning a short laugh from his teammates. They say misery loves company. Well, so does cynicism. Draco looked at Flint’s sweaty face but pointedly ignored every word he said. His words were meaningless.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I uploaded two chapters coz life is short. Existential crisis is continuing pls send help

Draco woke up to the sound of banging on his bedroom door. Truthfully, he’d been awake all night, falling in and out of chaotic, vivid dreams. But nevertheless, the violent banging made him jolt upright in bed.

“Mr Malfoy! Your late for tutoring!” Mcgongall shrieked through the door. Draco’s dorm mates began to stir, which made him panic. He hadn't trusted anyone except Pansy and Blaise to know about his punishment. He leapt out of bed and cracked open the door, giving Mcgongall a cheery smile that tried but failed to say ‘I’m A-OK’.

“I’m A-OK.” Draco croaked. “Just gotta brush my hair.”

“You certainly do.” Mcgongall’s lip curled when she looked at his disastrous hair. “You’ve kept Potter waiting for half an hour. Get a move on.” 

Whoever said human consciences was a burden was absolutely right. Draco had spent most of the night either stressfully awake or stressfully dreaming. His eyeballs threatened to fall out of his face in protest at the lack of shut-eye they had received. His limbs were uncooperative. And let’s not get started on his brain. 

“Harold!” Draco greeted Potter once he arrived in the library (after chugging down two cans from Goyle’s infinite supply of Red Bull). 

“Shut up Malfoy.” Potter bit back, his head buried in a chemistry workbook. “Just shut up whilst I finish my homework.” 

“I have an eternity ahead of me of not talking.” Draco pulled out the chair opposite Potter and sat himself down. “So I may as well spent the good eighty years I have getting as much talking done as I possibly can.”

“What kind of normal person is so nihilistic at nine am?” Potter said, mainly to the chemistry homework his head was buried in. 

“Oh sorry.” Potter added. “Nine thirty.” Draco tried to ignore the pang of guilt he felt at that comment and instead rolled his eyes. 

When Draco didn’t reply and began eating his muesli bar, Potter said, “Oh, that’s right, you’re not normal.” 

“Why don't you take your own advice and Shut. Up.” Draco put his legs up on the table and opened the Sudoko app on his phone. He wasn't going to spent his Sunday morning doing any form of schoolwork. Especially tutoring. 

When Sudoko and muesli bars became too dull, Draco snuck a look at Potter’s homework. The topic was equilibrium, which Draco found particularly interesting. Underneath the incredibly eloquent title was a mess of scribbles and scratched out numbers. Potter was pulling at his hair in a frustrated manner and was worrying his bottom lip. Draco sighed and sat forward. He supposed if he was here he could help a little.

“Question four’s wrong.” Draco said, flippantly.

“Just because I wear glasses doesn't mean I'm blind.” Potter scowled. “I know it’s wrong. Everything’s wrong. I’ve been working my arse off all year in class, and what good has it done? I’m still failing. I can’t even do the bloody simplest homework sheet.” Potter sighed and sat back in his chair.

Draco scowled back, but Potter wasn't matching his glare anymore. Instead, he was staring at his scuffed shoes, pouting a little. Draco softening his scowl when he felt sympathy for the disheartened boy in front of him.

“Fine.” Draco said with a sigh and snatched the workbook from Potter and spun it in front of him. “Let me see.”

He told himself he was assisting Potter out of the sheer uncomfortableness he felt about Potter’s openness. Anything to get the boy to stop looking so forlorn and spilling his guts out on the desk,a great pile of intestines that Draco would have to mop up. It just…wasn’t right. You didn’t tell your enemy your insecurities. You sat with your feet up on the desk, you just kept doing your work, and you pretended they didn’t exist. 

“Chemical equilibrium is the state where both reactants and products in concentrations have no ability to change with time.” Draco explained. “And this state is achieved when the forward reaction occurs at the same rate as the reverse reaction.”

Potter slowly looked up. Confusion was clear on his face, his puppy-dog expression made Draco’s icy heart begin to thaw. What happened to Hogwart’s hero? In front him wasn’t the proactive forward thinking Hogwarts golden boy, just a sad boy who couldn't do chemistry, and Draco was just another sad boy who could do chemistry, but not a whole lot else.

“Do you get it?” He asked softly. 

“Uh…” Potter squinted. “Kind of.” He looked up at Draco, who found himself trying to look at anywhere but Potter.

“Try again then, I haven’t got all day.” Draco pushed the book back. He turned his chair away from Potter’s desk and went back on his phone, trying to ignore the feeling at the pit of him stomach. 

After an awkward ten minutes of pencil scratching and phone tapping, Potter spoke up.

“You landed some good free throws yesterday.” Draco looked over, but Potter was staring at his workbook.

“I know.” Draco looked cooly at Potter. “And we would have won if the ref wasn’t staring at Ginny Weasley’s tits the whole game. Though she does have a good set.”

“Oi!” Potter slammed his pencil down and glared daggers at Draco. “Don’t talk about her like that.” Potter narrowed his eyes dangerously.

“Chillax, Potter.” Draco smiled to himself as he saw the corner of Potters eye twitch.. “I won’t touch her, I know she’s all yours.”

“Jesus Christ!” Now Potter slammed his fist on the desk, making the group of middle schoolers in the nearby aisle jump. “That’s possibly the dumbest thing you’ve said, Malfoy, and that’s saying a lot.” 

Long ago, Pansy had given Draco some valuable advice about women: if they act extremely angry about one petty thing, they're actually pissed off about something much bigger. Draco wondered if this could apply to Potter, he did have quite soft looking lips—nope no. Draco was not thinking about this now. 

“Is this about Flint?” He asked, imagining that Pansy was patting him on the head and saying ‘good boy’, as she liked to do when he acted in a way that wasn't completely socially inept. 

“You know what, Malfoy?” Potter leant forward. “This is about Flint. In fact, it’s about the ignorance and utter stupidity of the entire bloody Slytherin team.”

“Why do you even care what Flint says? He’s nineteen and still in high school. He could even be older, I’m not sure…”

‘You’re proving my point right here!” Potter threw his hands up in the air. “People are just too dismissive these days! They think that it doesn’t matter. They don’t realise how much influence the words of an idiot can have until it’s too late.”

“Why do you care?” Draco repeated, though he still felt dizzy and arguing made it worse. “It’s not like Flint is Hitler. He’s only called you a faggot. It’s not even that bad.”

“You do know I’m gay, right?” Potter said, looking up at Draco defiantly. 

“Err…” Draco’s brain seemed to have short circuited. “Gay.” Draco’s brain felt sort of fuzzy. Potter was gay?

“Malfoy, I have been openly gay for two years.” Potter said, looking at Draco, no longer looking angry, but sort of amused. 

Draco wanted to burst into a fit of hysterical laughter. He lived with Lucius Malfoy, who had a 1:1 ratio of racism and homophobia. Thank the Lord Potter didn’t know this. Draco was surprised to realise he didn't care. He had been taught begin gay was a sin, it was disgusting and wrong. But looking at Potter, he didn't feel disgust or anger, he didn't really care.

“I didn't know.” Draco said, carefully. Then at Potter’s unsure expression he added. “Not that I care of course.” Potter smiled for a moment and Draco thought his heart might have stopped for a moment. 

“What I’m trying to say,” Potter continued frowning once again, “is that idiots have power, Malfoy. If the smart ones, like you, don’t stop the idiots from calling me a faggot or a fairy or a poof, then idiots will think it’s OK and they can get away with it. Because an idiot is the product of his environment. He acts how others act. So when Flint has children, and they hear him using slurs, they’ll think it’s OK too. Because nobody told them it wasn’t. Because nobody told Flint it wasn’t. There has to be a point where we break the cycle.” 

Draco stared at Potter. “You think I'm smart?”

Potter just rolled his eyes. “You’re missing the point.” 

“You think I’m going to tell Flint to watch his mouth? Do you realise how many suicide runs that’ll earn me at training?” Draco found himself looking at the table, avoiding Potter’s eyes.

“What about the LGBT kids who actually commit suicide?” Potter sat back, looking carefully at Draco. “If I could stop the bullying, and stop those kids from feeling worthless, I’d do a thousand suicide runs.” 

“No you wouldn’t.” Draco replied adding a roll of eyes for good measure, but the fire in Potter’s eyes made Draco believe he maybe would. 

“We have to change the environment.” Potter declared. “It’s like what you were about to say to Hermione in history. Your environment-”

“What?” Draco jolted. His heart leapt in his ribcage, his throat began to squeeze shut. Potter knew. Potter knew about his family and the KKK. Potter always knew, he was just waiting for the right moment, he was going to tell everyone and he’d be hated, bashed, expelled for sure-

“You’re always around Crabbe and Goyle. And those older boys. I know they use a lot of slurs and play a lot of video games that disrespect black people.” Potter said. Draco waited for the inevitable ‘secret’s out you're in the KKK!’, but it never came. Potter just waited. Draco took a deep breath in, slowing his heart rate down.

“Look Malfoy…” He paused, looking up at Draco, “I don't think you’re as bad as some of the other Slytherins.” Draco smirked at the effort it was taking Potter to compliment him.   
“You are smarter than them, and maybe you could try to change something?” Potter looked at him, unsure. 

“So you think that because black people use that word you can. But you can’t. It means something else when a white person says it.” 

Draco realised he’d never heard a black person use the word. He’d heard lots of gap-toothed, gun-wielding men with Confederate flag tattoos use it. He’d even heard his mother use it.

“Yeah. I am pretty smart.” Draco smirked as Potter rolled his eyes. “You’re the worst of the Gryffindors though, just for the record.” 

Potter smirked, “Thanks Malfoy.”

“You’re welcome.” Draco said, smirking back. 

“Just, I don't know, think about who it hurts when you say that stuff yeah? Especially that word.”

Instinctively, he touched his own Confederate tattoo under his shirt. It was inked just under his left ribcage. He got the tattoo when he was fourteen and too young to realise the repercussions this would have on his sex life.


	7. Chapter 7

Draco was discovering, much to his disgust, that Potter wasn’t actually as insufferable as he thought. The Potter who waltzed around school handing out flyers about land rights for gay whales or whatever was still a git; that was a given. The Potter who was lightning quick and glistening with angry sweat on the basketball court was still a dickhead. 

But the Potter who like to draw cartoon animals all over his chemistry notes? The Potter who sketched a puppy balancing its fluffy paws on the curve of the ‘a’ and the ‘c’ in the title ‘Reactions’ at the top of the page? The Potter who drew goldfish swimming around molecule diagrams, as if the molecules were bubbles exhaled from the bug-eyed, grinning fish? The Potter who had asked Draco if he had a ruler with him, because he wanted to make sure the legs and neck of his giraffe was to scale?

This was the Potter who dominated Draco’s strained Tuesday afternoons and lazy Sunday mornings. This was the Potter who helped Draco understand that is wasn't just words that had weight, but feelings too.

When Draco was with Potter, alone in the library, at their desk in the dusty corner he felt light. His heart and stomach felt spacious and infinite. The knots loosened in his back, and sometimes he felt a bit intoxicated. He would have to cut Potter off mid-anecdote and bring their attention back to chemistry, because he feared that if Potter spoke any longer, he would become so light he’d float away, giggling into the clouds.

When Draco walked down the school hallways before the first bell, he felt heavy. When Crabbe and Goyle flanked him either side, he felt heavier. When his trio brushed past Potter, Weasley and Granger, and their interaction did not extend beyond a dirty look, he felt heaviest. 

No, that was a lie. He felt heaviest when he was sitting alone in the common room, because Blaise was on the phone to his mother, and Pansy was texting her sister, and Potter was across the room, reading a letter from home, his expression illuminated like a Christmas tree. That’s when Draco felt the pile of stones in his stomach, the ink from his tattoo bleeding poison into his heart. That’s when Draco couldn't remember how it felt to be light.

 

— ———————-

 

“Do you want to start with alkenes?” Draco said at the beginning of their Sunday sesssion a couple of weeks later,

Potter blinked behind his glasses. “Huh?”

“Alkenes. Does that ring a bell?”

“Um, no?”

“Wow. Have we not progressed at all?” Draco said, though he knew otherwise; Potter’s latest pop quiz mark was 78%.

“Well. I guess you could say…” Potter drifted off. 

Draco looked up from his textbook. “What?”

“It’s all a…”

“Spit it out, Potter.”

“It’s all a chem-mystery to me!” Potter announced, beaming. He looked five years old. Draco stared at him for a good ten seconds before banging his head on the desk.

“Oh my God.” He groaned. He didn’t need to look up to know Potter still had that smug grin on his stupid face.

“I suppose you could say…” Potter began again.

“No, Potter.” Draco cut in with a growl.

“My joke had…” He continued.

“Don’t you dare.” Draco said, snapping his head up from the desk and narrowing his eyes. He had barely slept last night because of his nightmares, and he had to wake up early to be here. He was already in a foul mood and this wasn't helping.

“The element of surprise!” He finished with a triumphant grin.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Draco said with a roll of his eyes.

“Get it? Like chemistry elements?” Potter said, bouncing up and down like a puppy.

“Yes, of course I get it, you imbecile.” 

Potter sniggered. “Who even says imbecile?”

“Someone whose chemistry knowledge extends beyond terrible jokes.” Draco said, adding a smirk to the end of his words.

“You kidding? They were genius.” 

“Certainly a subjective genius. Now, tell me about alkenes.” Draco said, with a sigh, trying to keep his eyes open.

“They are al-keen for more of my jokes.”

“If you’re going to be like that.” Draco stood up and pushed his chair in. He grabbed his backpack and swung it over his shoulder. 

“Malfoy, wait!” Potter called, his voice clearly trying to keep laughter at bay. Draco paused. He actually had begun to…enjoy…these session with Potter. Though he would kill anyone who tried to tell him that. He sighed and sat back down.

“I’m only staying because Mcgongall will hung, draw and quarter me otherwise.” Draco lied. 

“Sorry sorry sorry.” Potter said, though he was still grinning. He propped his elbow on the desk and rested his chin on his hand. “I’m just a bit distracted. Can’t focus on alkenes today.”

“What great problems are you facing, Potter?” Draco asked, loaded with sarcasm. He ignored Potter’s incorrect pronunciation of a chemistry term, since it happened too many times for Draco to correct every one.

Potter in turn ignored Draco’s sarcasm. “I’m organising the eighth grade trip to the soup kitchen. Me, Ron and Hermione were meant to take them to the kitchen Friday evening, and then to the movies afterwards. But now Ron’s got some Weasley family emergency, and Hermione’s got an influx of homework. I’ve asked literally everybody to help out, but they’re all got something on this Friday…” He drifted off, looking at Draco. 

“How odd,” Draco mockingly stroked his chin. “that no one would want to supervise a bunch of moody teenagers at a soup kitchen. On their Friday night. How truly perplexing.” He leaned back in his chair. 

“Shut up Malfoy. I can’t take the group on my own! How am I going to face the wrath of the eight graders when I tell them they can’t see the new Star Wars movie anymore?” Potter looked crestfallen at the end of his own outburst. 

“They should be grateful, really.” Draco replied, smirking at Potters distress. 

“You don’t like Star Wars?” Potter said, narrowing his eyes.

“I love Star Wars. I just don’t like soup kitchens.” Draco said, rolling his eyes and kicking his feet up on the table. 

“Have you ever been to one?” Potter raised an eyebrow.

“Nope. And don’t plan on it.” Draco said, mimicking Potters raised eyebrow. There was a moment of silence where both boys locked eyes. Neither looking away, staring each other down. Draco smirked when Potter looked away, he won. 

“What are you doing Friday night?” Potter was looking at the hem of his shirt. 

“Noth—wait a minute.” Draco narrowed his eyes at Potter’s devilish grin. Draco chose wisely and said nothing more to Potter, opting to read through the textbook and brush up on alkenes. 

“I can run the field trip if I have another senior supervising the kids.” Potter said, turning his puppy dog eyes on Draco. 

“No.” Draco said focusing on the text in front of him.

“Yes.” Potter leaned forward. 

“Fuck no.” 

“It’s a free ticket to see Star Wars!” 

“Still no.”

“Don’t you want to see Spock and-”

“That’s Star Trek!” Draco stopped reading and stared aghast Potter. That grin was still plastered to his face. Banter with a boisterous Potter was such an exhaustion on a Sunday morning. But that didn’t mean he wanted to cut the conversation. 

“Duh, I know that. I just wanted to prove that you were a big enough nerd to help out at a dreaded soup kitchen if it meant you could see the film.” 

“That makes no sense.”

“Neither does passing up on a free movie ticket. And a free dinner.”

“True, but-” Draco made the mistake of looking up from his text book and meeting Potters eyes. His lopsided grin and pleading puppy dog eyes stopped Draco in his tracks.

“So you’ll come?” Potter said at Draco’s loss of words. Draco thought back to when he was an eighth grader, and he had to read The Great Gatsby for English, and he thought to himself that Fitzgerald had gotten something right when he talked about the how Gatsby’s smile was “an irresistible prejudice in your favour”. 

“Only if I get to yell at children.” Draco said, narrowing his eyes at Potter again.

“Sure. Whatever you want.” Potter said, smiling as he sat back in his chair.

“Fine.”

“Yes!” Potter jumped out of his seat, and Draco worried for a terrifying moment that Potter might actually hug him.

Potter seemed to sense how Draco tensed up and sat back down, scratching the back of his neck and grinning. 

“Thanks. It…it, uh, means a lot.” Draco thought he saw a blush rising in Potters cheeks. 

“Yeah, yeah just don't go blabbing about it to the whole school.” Draco mumbled, looking back down at his book. 

When Potter looked at him like that, with the lopsided grin and puppy dog eyes, Draco almost thought they could be friends, proper friends. He thought about playing one-on-one matches of basketball and chess in the common room in front of the fire. He thought about sharing early morning cups of tea, Potter waking up from a night of sleep and Draco trying to stay awake after a sleepless night. 

But then Draco thought about the letters from his father. He thought about Potter’s face when he would find out about Draco’s family, about what was expected of him. And Draco knew that they couldn't be friends. They couldn't be anything. 

Draco risked a glance at Potter, and was surprised when he saw him duck his head quickly, as if to hide the fact that he had been staring at Draco. Draco’s eyes fell to Potter’s notebook, where he had drawn the outline of a dragon sleeping along the top of his notes.

“Cute dragon, Potter.” Draco said, trying to lessen the silence. 

As if on cue Potter’s face broke out into a triumphant smile. 

“You really like it? Hermione always tells me off for doodling on my notes…” He trailed off, grabbing a pencil and beginning to shade the sleeping dragon. 

“Well, don't listen to her, after all she’s just…” Draco broke himself off when he saw the way Potter was looking at him.

“Just someone with a very poor eye for art.” Draco finished. Potter looked relieved, as though Draco had lifted a fist to punch him and then patted his head instead. 

They fell into a comfortable silence, with Potter scratching away at the picture in his notes and Draco idly flicking through his textbook. He didn't have the heart to tell Potter they should get back to work. Every now and again Draco could have sworn that he could see Potter watching him out of the corner of his eyes, but whenever he raised his eyes Potter was focusing on his drawing. 

Stupid. As if he would be looking at you. Draco didn't pause to wonder why he felt disappointed whenever he realised Potter wasn’t looking at him. 

Draco didn't even realise how long they had been sitting there until the shrill sound of a particularly unwelcome voice broke through the silence of the library. 

“Harry! There you are.” Potter almost fell over himself trying to sit up straight and close his notebook all at once. Draco didn't even try to stop himself from rolling his eyes as he sent a book flying onto the floor. 

Without thinking, Draco leant down to pick the book up, handing it to Potter with a smirk. 

“Graceful.” Draco didn't miss the incredulous look that Hermione shot at Potter. What? Draco couldn't play nice?

“Um…morning, Malfoy.” Granger said, doing her best to keep a civil tone. Potter looked like he was about to have a panic attack at the mere interaction. 

“Granger.” Draco said by way of greeting. He turned to give her a once over. Her hair was pulled back into a messy bun, which framed her sharp cheek bones rather well, he had to admit. 

“You’re looking well.” He added in a pleasant tone. Which in turn caused her eyes to almost fall out of her head. An added bonus, he thought. She turned back to Potter, as if looking for an explanation, but when he offered none she began to pack up his books for him. 

“You’re going to be late to your teaching class!” She said, “It’s almost twelve and you are meant to be IN the class room at twelve.” 

Potter looked sheepish as he muttered an apology and stood up. 

“Well, later Malfoy.” He said with a small smile.

“See you later, Potter.” Draco replied as Potter was forcibly dragged from the library. Granger’s determination made up for her lack of stature. 

“Ah, shit.” Draco said aloud to nobody in particular. “I’m spending time with Potter. Optionally.” 

Draco was beginning to doubt his own sanity. He sighed, and began to make his way back to the common room.

 

————

 

“Checkmate!”

“Pansy, that’s not checkmate. All you did was move a pawn.”

“Check then!”

“Still, no.” Draco sighed. He ignored Blaise laughing to himself. For some unknown reason, Pansy was playing on Draco’s side for the night’s chess match. If anything, Blaise should be the one with a handicap. Draco had tried to tell Pansy to bugger off, but inspiritingly she had ignored him. 

The fire crackled in the corner of the common room, louder than any of the quiet conversations going on. The TV was on, but nobody was watching. 

“Let’s move the horse.”

“Knight. It’s called a knight,” Draco said with a sigh.

“I don’t see a knight. All I see is a horse.” Pansy examined the white piece and pouted. Draco knew she was winding him up by taking the piss out of chess. And like most things she did, she was successful. 

“You guys better be coming to drinks on Friday.” Blaise said as he lazily pushed his rook down the board. “I can’t handle a drunk Flint on my own.”

“Can’t”. Draco and Pansy said simultaneously. They raised their eyebrows at each other, what could Pansy be doing that he didn't know about? Pansy told him everything, hell, Draco could practically read her mind and visa-versa. 

Draco didn’t give much thought to the future, as it filled him with paralysing fear, but sometimes he imagined he would marry Pansy. It wasn’t a romantic or even desirable situation, but it would work, it would be nice. It was expected, like the next rung in the ladder of his life. His father always liked the Parkinsons, and she was better than most clan members children. 

“You’re kidding me.”Blaise said, uncharacteristic whine in his tone. As if in retaliation, Blaise took Draco’s queen with a smirk. Pansy mock-winced, which earned her a shove from Draco. His mind trotted back to the family they would most likely have, and he felt slightly sick. She was basically his sister.

Then again, it wouldn't be the first time that sort of thing happened in these parts of the USA. 

“What’s your excuse Malfoy?” Blaise asked, pointing a thin finger between Draco’s eyes. He went slightly cross-eyed whilst staring at the end of Blaise’s finger and trying to come up with a reason that had nothing to do with Harry Potter.

“Hey! Why not Pansy?” Draco said, attempting to shift the blame onto her.

“Because Pansy can’t help me carry Flint home when he’s legless on booze, So whats the excuse.”

He was about to answer when he was cut off by a loud fanfare playing from the TV.

“Hush!” Granger called out from where she stood in front of the TV. “The news is on. They have a special report on.”

The Gryffindors and Ravenclaws began to gather in front of the screen. Unfortunately, The Chess Rug was located just by the TV, so Draco was forced to share his sacred space with the idiots who watched this left-wing bullshit. 

Draco clenched his fist, as if he could squeeze Lucius’ voice out of his mind. Sometimes it worked. Most times it didn’t, and he was left with bloody indents in his palm.

_“Tonight: an exclusive interview. An anonymous source from the KKK has come forward and revealed the innermost secrets of the notorious white supremacist group. Over to you, Rita.”_

Excited muttering bounced between the Gryffindors. They were so attracted to documentaries about the ‘evil’ to be found in our world. Maybe it made them feel better about their own sins; to see the lives of the truly wicked broadcast on television. 

What if they knew about Draco’s family? About his childhood, and his future? What if they knew the trio playing chess, sitting just near them, had relatives who took part in lynchings? Who wept for America when Obama was elected? Who believed in racial segregation with the same conviction they knew the sun would rise?

Draco looked up and noticed Blaise picking at loose threads on The Chess Rug. Draco knew the anonymous source would mention Blaise’s father. He was one of the most vocal activists. He felt no need for the anonymity the white hood provided, and instead paraded up and down the street preaching for the return to the good old days. Blaise’s mother was not part of the picture: she was a catwalk model who took Blaise’s father as her seventh husband. 

John Zambini’s claim to KKK fame was the story of his grandmother. She was a white woman living a happy white life when she was raped by a black man, and impregnated with John. She died in childbirth. Thus, John Zambini was half black, but fully determined on vengeance. 

“Should we leave?” Draco said inaudibly to Pansy. Her face was expressionless. She pushed her lips into a thin line, then she shook her head. 

“No. We should stay. They’re telling our parents secrets. Not ours, we need to show that we are better than them.” Pansy kept her eyes focuses on the screen.

Here was another reason Draco could not marry Pansy: she was brave. She would hate his cowardice. In fact, she probably already did. Because Pansy was brave and Draco was not, he stood up and headed to his room. He turned around when he reached the door, because he was a masochist and wanted to see everyone whispering about him. But everyone’s eyes were fixed on the news report. The camera panned between journalist Rita Skeeter and a shadowed figure speaking in a garbled robotic voice. 

Out of the corner of his eyes, Draco saw Potter turning around. Draco shut himself behind the bedroom door before Potter could meet his eyes, and see everything he kept so well hidden. He rested his head against his door squeezing his eyes shut, trying to calm his nerves. He knew one day they would find out about him and he didn't know what would happen when they did. When Potter did.

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's a bit shorter than the last one, but this is probably my favourite chapter thus far. Also, we should be writing a Wolfstar short fic in a few days, so stay tuned

"I always hated soup." Draco grumbled as he stirred the spoon around the deep metal pot of ambiguous soup. Unidentifiable vegetables floated around the pot. He imagined this was the food they served in prison. He scrunched up his nose as he dipped the ladle into the murky broth. 

"Some people can't afford to be as picky as you, Malfoy.” Potter replied as he placed a bowl of soup into the cupped hands of a heavily bearded man. The man thanked him with a toothless grin and shuffled off. Draco sighed, the journey to the soup kitchen had been a tiring one. He was functioning off a few hours of sleep, and the mindless chatter of the eighth graders on the bus didn’t do him any favours. Potter had asked him cautiously if he was feeling OK. Draco responded with a weak nod. 

They had arrived at what could only be called a dump. The soup kitchen was set up like a cafeteria. Long tables were in the centre of the room. Men and women in various states of wellbeing sat around the tables, some talking, some not. The kids flittered around the kitchen. The other volunteers delegated them tasks such as peeling carrots and unstacking the dishwasher in the hopes they wouldn't set the building alight. 

Draco was wearing a large jacket that concealed his hand sanitiser and headache tablets. Potter wore a thin blue jumper and had the front of his hair tied back. Draco almost told Potter his bun was gay, but stopped himself. The banter between him and Potter was light and easy and Draco didn't feel like pushing his luck today. 

Just because Draco didn’t hate Potter for being gay, it definitely, in no way, meant he was gay. Just because occasionally he enjoyed Potter’s company did not mean he was into him. Just…no. He watched Thor with Pansy six times because he liked action movies, not because he liked Chris Hemsworth’s arms.

He dished out three bowls of steaming broth and passed them Potter with a grunt, as if to reinforce his masculinity. To himself? To Potter? Did Potter think he was masculine? Did _anyone_ think he was masculine? The snow-blonde hair and the bow lips certainly weren't helping matters. 

“This is the busiest I’ve ever seen the place.” Potter noted, nodding towards the line growing towards the door interrupting the crisis of Draco’s manhood. It occurred to Draco that he had never been around this many homeless people at once. In fact, he’d never really been this close to any homeless person. The Malfoy family was held together by inherited wealth and not much more. Old money. He was well aware of where the homeless people hung around in the city, because these were the areas he avoided. His father always said with that much dirt, you could hardly see the colour of their skin.

“Harry Harry!” A voice chirped. Draco and Potter spun around to see an elvish eighth grader grinning up at them.

“Hey there Colin.” Potter greeted. Draco narrowed his eyes at the kid and his very punchable face. But the bloody boy just grinned back.

“Hey Draco! Good game on Saturday, hey? You can free throw like a boss!” Colin said with a wide smile. How did that not hurt his cheeks?

Draco overtly cringed at the phrase ‘like a boss’, remembering his own embarrassing fourteen-year-old vocabulary. Potter sniggered into the bowl of soup Draco passed him. 

“Um, anyway, Harry, guess what?” Colin said, literally bouncing.

“What’s up?”

“I met a man before who used to be a photographer! He took photos for magazines and ads and everything!”

“Well, how about that?”

“He’s poor now, but he still has a camera! And he said he’d teach me some stuff!”

“That’s awesome Colin!”

“I’m going to meet him in the park tomorrow!”

“Is that really safe?” Draco whispered to Potter. He was hardly concerned for the kid, but more for himself: McGonagall would tie him to a whipping post if Colin’s body was found behind a bush. 

“They are all good people at this soup kitchen, Malfoy.” Potter whispered back. “I’ve been volunteering here for years. And really, you need some more faith in people.” 

Draco didn't bother to argue with Potter. He looked at the steady stream of men and women lining up for food. Potter couldn't know all of these people could he? Was Draco too pessimistic? 

Realistic, he told himself. Realistic. 

Draco continued to pour out bowls of soup and automatically hand them to Potter. He was growing used to the giggles of the kids and the scratchy tones of the patrons. In a way, the voices cancelled each other out into a mid-range hum. 

He realised he was oddly at peace, doing something this robotic in an unfamiliar place. Potter was chatting with the men and women he handed soup bowls too, smiling with his whole being. An eighth grader girl bumped into Draco when she was collecting cutlery, but he didn’t mind.

It wasn’t that bad. Don’t let anyone know, though. 

 

—————————————-

 

The cinema was almost as run-down as the soup kitchen and its occupants. Given, they were in the dodgy part of town, but Draco was expecting something slightly less horror film-like. Thank God they weren’t seeing an actual horror film. 

Draco hugged his giant popcorn box to his chest and made his way to a seat in the middle of the back row. The kids scattered themselves across the seats, since the cinema was completely empty. Potter stopped at the seat next to him, and then made a retching sound when he sat down.

“Really? Pretending to vomit when you sit near me, Potter? I thought you were supposed to be the mature one.” Draco muttered as he grabbed a fistful of popcorn, trying to ignore the hurt feeling that swept over him. 

“What? No, I wasn’t…I just hate popcorn.” Potter shifted uneasily. 

“Surely you’re kidding.” Draco turned to look at Potter as though he had grown a second head. Potter smiled and ran a hand through his hair.

“I’m not.” 

“Do you hate fun or something?” Draco said, giving Potter a once over.

“Corn kernels smeared in butter and salt isn't fun. It’s a crime against arteries and taste buds.” 

“Well, suit yourself.” Draco stuffed his fist of popcorn in his mouth and chewed loudly. Even as the lights dimmed and the trailers started (one of the best parts of going to the movies, in Draco’s opinion, even if one was seeing Star Wars), Draco could still see Potter’s disgusted expression. 

“What’s your preferred movie snack, then?” Draco asked, with a roll of his eyes. He had to find out the one aspect of Potter that wasn't entirely abnormal.

Potter thought about this for a moment. “I don’t like to snack at the movies. I usually drink tomato juice.”

This sent Draco into a fit of hysterical laughter he couldn't contain, not even for a creaky old cinema or his favourite sci-fi franchise. From the front row, Colin Creevey shushed him.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for drinking and underaged drinking for Americans. If you don't want to read this bit, skip to "Draco woke up with a monstrous headache..."
> 
> Sorry there's only one chapter today we've been pretty busy recently. Hope you enjoy xx

The next day, Slytherin smashed Hufflepuff on the basketball court with a score of 64-5. Gryffindor also beat Ravenclaw, but by no means the same margin. The Slytherins’ were buzzing with victory and headed straight to their favourite bar, The Three Broomsticks, after the game. Yes, they were all there the night before (minus Draco for reasons that will remain confidential to his teammates, thank you very much) but Slytherins like a night out. And The Three Broomsticks tended to turn a blind eye towards underaged kids. 

After a few beers and Goyle forcing them all to do shots, Draco and Pansy were slumped in a booth by the back wall. Blaise was with them a second ago, but was currently MIA. The lighting was vaguely purple and a remix to a Spice Girls song pumped through the speakers.The bar was packed full of rowdy Slytherins and a few proud Gryffindors. 

“I wanna dance.” Pansy suddenly announced. “But if I stand up I’m gonna chuck.”

“This is a good song, Pansy.” Draco slurred, smacking his fist on the table as if to reinforce his point. “If someone wants to be my lover, they gotta get with my friends!”

“But you hate your friends.”

“I don’t hate you.” He grabbed Pansy’s skinny hand and kissed it. “I love you very, very much.”

She tried to slap his face away, but missed and they both ended up laughing. Draco felt dizzy and good. He didn’t even care that he was a Malfoy, and had badness in his blood like mould in the pipes of a dishwasher. 

“Where were you last night?” Pansy asked, trying to look serious but failing. 

“At a soup kitchen with Potter.” Draco said. “But that’s a secret! You can’t tell anyone.”

He made a shushing noise with great exaggeration. He knew he shouldn't have said that, but he was under the effect of a truth-telling serum of sorts. 

“You! Potter! Soup kitchen!” Pansy’s jaw dropped. “And you weren't killing each other?”

“Nope. We were serving up some sloppy soups.” He slammed his fist with each ’s’ sound. “And then we went to the movies.”

“Ooh, on a date? Did he yawn and then put his arm around you?”

“Fuck off.”

“I bet you gave him a hand-job.”

“Pansy!” Draco tried to ignore the blush that crept up his neck at the thought of his hand on Potter…No, this was the shots talking. 

“No? Blowjob then?”

“You were probably blowing some guy last night.” Draco was still aware enough to know the conversation needed to be directed away from anything that connected Potter and hand-jobs.

“No. I was with Luna.”

“Luna!” Now Draco’s jaw fell. “Looney Lovegood? Was she selling you meth?”

“She showed me a book on UFOs.”

“She’s brainwashing you!” Draco said, flinging his hands in the air as if to show how concerned about this issue he was.

“You’re wrong. Everyone’s brainwashed _except_ us.”

At this point, Blaise returned to the booth. Even in the dim lighting, it was clear his shirt was untucked, his usually neat hair was ruffled, and a blush was rising in his face. 

“Blaise, my fellow, have you been fornicating?” Draco said in his best drunk British accent.

“Good heavens, Mr Zambini!” Pansy joined in with an accent that sounded more Indian than British. “This is polite society. Such indiscretions won’t be tolerated.” 

“And to think I was to approve of you courting my daughter! You are not worthy to be the next Earl of Malfoy Manor.” 

Blaise blushed deeper. “Can you stop being idiots? I was just having a breather outside. Chill.”

“Don’t tell me to chill, young man.” Pansy stabbed a finger in his direction. “I saw you meandering off to the bathrooms to do things my gentle brain cannot even begin to think about. God forbid the Duchess hears about this!”

“And what is the meaning of this?” Draco plucked a long strand of hair off Blaise’s shoulder. Then his mind became a bit clearer, and he dropped the monarchist accent. “Is this hair red?”

“It’s not red!” Blaise snatched the strand away. “That wasn’t even hair. It was nothing!” 

“Were you with-”

“EVERYONE CHECK YOUR WATCHES.” Flint boomed as he stumbled over to their booth with a tray of small drinks. “IT’S TIME FOR SHOTS.”

“Blaise, we’re talking about this.” Draco said before he downed the shot. It was around that time that Draco’s mind went blank. 

—————————————————————

Draco woke up with a monstrous headache and a strange feeling he had to talk to Blaise. What about, he had no clue. He curled deeper into his blankets on his bed. He had no idea  when he got back to the dorms, how he got back, or why his right cheek hurt so much. Draco cursed to himself as sun streamed through the window. 

“Hello?” He croaked. Nobody answered. He assumed the dorm must be empty, since he wasn't bothered to remove himself from the sanctuary of his bed and check. He swallowed a wave of nausea, burying his head deeper into his pillow.

And then came the shrill voice through the door, accompanied with a succession of aggressive knocks. Draco thought his skull was about to shatter. 

“Mr Malfoy! Get out of bed this instant! You’re late for tutoring!”

“Good morning to you too, Professor McGonagall.” Draco muttered to himself as he half-fell out of bed.He stumbled to the bathrooms, he drowned himself in cologne and splashed his grey-hued face in the sink. Grabbing a white t-shirt from under his bed and, after a cautionary sniff, pulling it quickly over this head. He also wrapped a thick grey scarf around his neck.

“This is the second time you’ve forgotten Sunday tutoring, Mr Malfoy. This is a punishment, not an optional activity.” McGonagall said as soon as he opened his dorm door. Damn, he thought she might have left. He tried to smile at her, but it probably looked and definitely felt like a wince.

“I’m well aware it’s a punishment.” He replied hoarsely. The history teacher gave a look that spoke volumes of disappointment before stalking out of the Slytherin common room. Draco pouted as he grabbed his bag and stumbled to the library.

He was halfway down the halls when he heard the kind of shouting it was far too early in the morning for.

“Oi, Malfoy! Draco, turn around, ya git!”

It was either Crabbe or Goyle. The more time he spent with Dumb and Dumber, the more their voices began indistinguishable. Draco turned around and fiddled with the frayed ends of his scarf. The sinking feeling in his gut that something had gone terribly wrong last night remained with him, and he definitely couldn't count on Crabbe and Goyle to have discretion if they had witnessed anything.

“You little fucker!” Crabbe said good-naturedly when the boys came over. Goyle slapped Draco on the shoulder. The pain of this ricochetted throughout his body. 

“Vincent, if anything happened last night, tell me immediately.” Draco drew his face into its most intimidating expression. 

“I think that bruise on your face explains it all!” Goyle grinned. Draco’s jaw dropped as he gently touched the sore spot below his right eye. His stomach fell to the floor.

“Did I get into a fight?” Draco asked, but he doubted it. He had come to learn that arguments were not to be fought with fists. However, he was still learning to use his words. He had never been the most articulate guy, not unless he was dishing out sass and insults. 

“You wish, man!” Crabbe whooped. “You got bitch-slapped. Big time!”

“What?”

“Millicent Bullstrode, man.” Goyle laughed and shook his meaty head. “You were hitting on her at the bar, and then she smacked ya. It was absolutely brutal.” 

Draco swallowed. “Oh dear God.” 

Crabbe and Goyle cackle maniacally as they walk off. Draco hurried off to the library as crazy thoughts swam around his mind. Why would he try and hook up with Millicent? He’d known her since she was a snotty, fat child with him at KKK meetings. And even as she got older, she still believed in white supremacy with the same fierce dedication as his own father. The way she viewed others as sub-human made her sub-human, in a way. 

He found Potter in their usual spot, his slumped posture and bored expression suggesting he’d been sitting there a long time. Draco felt a pang of guilt, especially after the time they’d spent together on Friday. They were…almost friends? Now that they weren't enemies, did that mean they were friends? 

Draco had never had a friend like Potter. Most of his friends were cruel like him. He used people as tools, as punching bags. Furthermore, his friends (apart from Pansy) were dumb. Potter wasn't dumb. He’d see right through Draco and find all the demons that lay not too far below the surface. 

When Potter’s face lit up the moment he saw Draco, he realised another reason they couldn't be friends. Your heart isn't supported to miss a beat when you see a friend. Your stomach isn't supposed to tighten when a friend smiles at you. He didn’t have many friends, but he was still pretty confident this isn't what friendship felt like. 

“Hey.” Draco breathed, slumping down comfortably in the seat adjacent to Harry. “Sorry I’m late.”

“No worries.” Potter waved a hand before opening his chemistry workbook. “I’ve got a big test on Wednesday though, so I’ll be needing a fair bit of help. If you don’t mind, that is.”

“Of course not.” Draco said quickly. Then he caught himself. “It’s not like I’ve got anything better to do.” 

Potter’s face fell. Or did it? Was Draco just wishfully thinking that Potter saw him as anything other than a dickhead? After all, Potter was a smart guy. He would've known that Draco’s motives for going to the soup kitchen weren't altruistic. Even if Draco wasn't quite sure of the motives himself, Potter probably knew. There were two kinds of people in Draco’s life: those who he influenced, and those who influenced him. 

No, wait, there was a third person: Millicent Bullstrode.

“Fuck me.” Draco groaned loudly, burying his head in the desk. His headache landed a punch right in his temples. He was possibly going to throw up, but luckily swallowed it back. His dignity would survive another day.

“Shush, Malfoy, I’m studying.” Potter said, but Draco could sense the smirk in his voice. He looked up and saw Potter sketching dragons on the corner of his worksheet.

“Potter, can I ask you a hypothetical question?”

“I doubt it’s going to be hypothetical, but sure.”

“If you were to have discovered you did something that you would never normally do, how would you react?” 

“So you did something stupid last night at The Three Broomsticks?”

“How’d you know I was there?” Draco replied sharply. “Wait, damn it! This question is completely hypothetical, Potter. Don’t mess with me.”

Potter chuckled. “Let’s continue with your completely hypothetical scenario that definitely did not happen last night.”

“Yes, exactly. So…oh fuck, I’m just gonna say it.” 

“Yes?”

“Turns out I tried to get with Millicent Bullstrode. You know her? Big girl, arms of steel, thinks Donald Trump’s gonna make America great again.”

“Oh, um-”

“And then she slapped me across the face. And everyone saw. And I have absolutely no memory of this because I was blind drunk and I’m a complete idiot. Drunk or not, I’m an idiot. That’s the one thing I know about myself.” 

Draco let the words spill from his mouth into the comfort of his secluded spot in the library with Potter.  He laughed to himself at the extent of his desperation: he had to rant about his problems to his worst enemy. Potter, who would testify against him at his trial if his KKK connections were ever exposed. But he just had to laugh-otherwise he would cry.

However, Potter wasn't laughing. He just looked blankly at Draco. Actually, the more he looked, Draco noticed that Potter’s jaw was tense. He’d lost all his light from before. Why did Draco have to tell the bloody Amnesty Team president about his drunken antics? Potter was probably about to launch into a spiel about the dangers of alcohol poisoning. 

“So?” Draco asked, nervous to break the silence. 

“So?” Potter repeated, quietly. But that was probably because they were in the library. 

“What the fuck do I do?”

“Look, mate, I’m probably not the best person to ask.” Potter snapped. He turned his head back to the books and starting writing away, actually doing the work this time. Draco noticed a blush crawl down Potter’s cheeks. 

“Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed.” Draco muttered to himself. He rested his head on the desk and craved sleep. Or a Berocca.

“ _I’m_ fine, Malfoy.” Potter barked, drawing Draco out of the beginnings of his nap. “I’m not the one who-” 

Draco waited for Potter to finish. But he didn’t. His eyes were directed towards the non-fiction section, but he wasn't looking. He was zoned out, somewhere else.

Draco sighed. “You may as well have a go at me, Potter. It’ll do you some good to let your morals go for a bit.”

Potter suddenly looked right at him. “No. I don’t need to rant. I just need a minute, kay?” 

“Alright. But-” 

“It’s fine. You already know how much of an idiot you are. You said so yourself.” 

Draco couldn't help but laugh. Normally, he recoiled like a spring when insulted. But with Potter, it was different. It was OK because he didn’t genuinely mean it. Draco wasn't sure how he could tell this, but he knew. It made him feel warm and dizzy. 

“At least I’m passing chemistry.” Draco quipped with a smile. Potter’s face fell again, and Draco’s heart stopped for a moment as he worried he’d taken overstepped the line between teasing and mocking. 

But then Harry shrugged. “I’ll pass eventually. That’s what happens in the end, right? The good guys win.” 

“Suppose so.” Draco said, not sure what to make of Potter’s comment. He was most definitely not one of the good guys. You don't define your own goodness; it’s defined by other people and how they view you. And nobody had told Draco he was good before. 

 


End file.
